


His Blogger James Bond

by Aku_Cinta_Kamu



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BAMF John Watson, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Holmes Brothers, Hurt/Comfort, John Watson is 007, John Watson is James Bond, Minor Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Minor Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Q is a Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-13 01:18:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11749107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aku_Cinta_Kamu/pseuds/Aku_Cinta_Kamu
Summary: John Watson didn't go to the Holmes family dinner thinking that he would run into a character from his past. He didn't know what he was expecting, though, because nothing about the Holmes family is ever uninteresting.Rewritten. Previously titled Holmes Family Dinner, located on fanfiction.net





	His Blogger James Bond

When he looked back on the event, he really didn’t know what he had been expecting. With the Holmes family, normal wasn’t ever in the cards. But when he got the invitation to dinner, he was still oblivious and, embarrassingly enough, excited at the prospect of meeting the rest of Sherlock’s family. 

“I don’t know why you expect me to go,” Sherlock grumbled. “You’re the one who talks to my family, not me.”

If pressed, John would admit that this was mostly true, and that he did spend quite a bit of time texting with Mrs. Holmes, but he didn’t think that was too strange. Lydia was a wonderful woman and she worried about Sherlock just as much as, perhaps even more than, Mycroft did. On top of that, she hadn’t kidnapped him to ask about Sherlock. She had seen him beside her son in the news and invited him to tea. They had a lovely time talking together, and John would freely admit that it was nice to have someone to rant to about his flatmate, especially when that someone could offer good tea, informed advice, and hilarious stories.

However, John barely knew Mr. Holmes, and he had yet to meet the youngest Holmes boy, Quentin.

“Your best jumper, John? Nervous… yes but why? My family is boring and irritating. You don’t have anyone to impress. Besides, Mummy likes you, which automatically means that everyone there has to be nice.” John huffed.

“I’m not nervous, Sherlock. I’m trying to be polite, you wanker.” Sherlock hummed skeptically.

Perhaps John was a little nervous. But that was only because he didn’t know what to expect. He had long since memorized the blueprints of the mansion. It was an old habit, but he found himself reassured by it, reviewing all the exits in his head as they walked to the dining room, as well as where the servants were likely to be, the obstacles between himself and the nearest three doors, and a head count of everyone who was supposed to be in the building that day. He was brought out of his thoughts by Sherlock who, instead of stalking off ahead of the maid who was escorting them and being an all around prat like John expected him to, was as close to his side as was polite. John spared a quick glance at him and raised his eyebrows.

Sherlock was acting concerned. John took a moment to surreptitiously adjust his posture, surprised at himself for relaxing his guard enough to alert his flatmate. Some of the concern left Sherlock’s face, but he remained close to Johns side, even as they reached the dining room.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at this as they entered, but whatever snarky comment he was going to make was cut off by Lestrade’s loud and friendly greeting. Upon taking his seat, John did a mental head count and realized that they were missing someone. Quentin wasn’t here yet. Mycroft was getting a talking to at the end of the table.

“For goodness sakes, Mike, England ran itself before you came along, and I’m sure it will still stand after you go, so mind your manners and put the laptop down!” Mycroft hummed, nose wrinkling in distaste, at the comment or the nickname, John wasn’t sure, but continued to work until Greg reached out from where he was sitting and shut the laptop. Mycroft shot him an exasperated look but he just laughed. “Yeah _Mike_ , no working at the table.”

Just then, the door opened and John looked up to see a face right out of his past.

“Ah Quentin, nice of you to join us,” said Mr. Holmes.

“Yes I’m afraid I was running late due to…” he caught sight of John.

Half a second later, there was a gun pointed at his head.

“Hello Q. It’s been a while.”

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

James left purple hyacinths on M’s grave when he visited for the last time. He couldn’t help but remember that he was doing a lot of things for the last time. Walking through MI6 headquarters to the new M’s office, asking for leave, all for the last time.

 

“You were just on leave.”

“I faked my death and had to recover from being shot, that’s not leave.”

“Regardless, we can’t spare you.”

“I… look. I need to shoot something. If I go onto a mission now, I will be compromised. I need to go somewhere to work out my anger. Preferably with a gun and a lot of moving targets.”

The man shuffled around some papers. “Actually, I might have something. 003 went MIA a few days ago in an active warzone. We were going to send in 006, but he’s currently in medical.” James nodded.

“Alert me when it's time to go.”

 

003 looked at him cautiously. “You’re sure?”

“I need to be done. I’m out, do you understand?” She nodded.

“Okay. You died when that building exploded. There are no cameras out here, and I’ll report that you went in to save a civilian and didn’t come out again.” He looked at her and smiled.

“Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever. I’m only doing this because I know I’ll want out someday too.” James nodded.

He watched her leave by helicopter from the ruins of the building. Carefully evading the search and rescue team he moved to a nearby military base. It was American.

“Who are you? What are you doing all the way out here?”

“My name is John Watson. I’m a medic.” The Americans were smart and didn’t ask any questions, accepting his help without complaint. ‘Nobody fucks with medics,’ James thought with a grin. It was time to start a new life.

 

003 found him three months later as he was working with the Americans.

“Listen, I want to go out, too.” He didn’t ask why. She looked all kinds of messed up.

“They already think that I’m dead, okay? Just let me come with you. A familiar face will do me a lot of good.”

He thought about it. It was dumb. It was a bad move, they were twice as likely to be caught. But she had helped him out before.

“Fine. You’re my sister. Harriet Watson, you understand?” He rattled off information about their family, a whole back story that he had put in place before he had left MI6. It wouldn’t be too hard to add in an older sister.

“Harry. Not Harriet.” He shrugged.

“Fine. Harry. But your documents are going to say Harriet, nobody names their daughter Harry.” She smiled. He thought that maybe he could make it through this.

 

He had been wrong about her. The second they had gotten back to England she had gotten drunk. And then she stayed drunk.

Four months later, he packed up his gear and enlisted again. He would rather play medic in the field than to Harry. He hoped that she could manage not to drown in her own vomit without him. 

When he got shot, he didn’t even think about going back to live with Harry, even though she gave him her old phone. He had liked Clara, she had kept Harry stable for a while. As much as he disliked Harry, she was family now, so he accepted the phone and made sure to check up on her as often as he remembered to.

 

Running into Mike Stamford was almost a fatal accident. Mike had been a good friend to him before, so he explained his situation and his new name. Mike didn’t think twice about it, just told him about a potential flatmate. He was still an okay guy…

And the flatmate, well. John thought that maybe meeting Sherlock Holmes was worth losing an old life for. He settled down, and was finally happy. He ran into other agents sometimes, but they were all good enough not to mention his name to the agency. And his existence stayed a thinly-veiled secret until he was handed an invitation to dinner.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

“Impossible. Who are you?” Quentin hissed.

“You know who I am.”

Quentin cocked the gun.

“Always makes me feel a little melancholy. A grand old warship being ignominiously hauled away for scrap. The inevitability of time, don’t you think?”

Quentin’s hand started to shake.

“That’s the first thing you ever told me. The first time we met. How else could I possibly know that, Q? It’s me.” John started walking slowly towards him.

“Access to the cameras, you could have…”

“You shut those cameras down yourself, Q. And, after all, you’re the one who could, and I quote, ‘do more damage on your laptop sitting in your pajamas before your first cup of Earl Grey than I could do in a year in the field.’” He was only a few paces away now.

“No, no… we had eyes on you as you died, there’s no way… you can’t be.”

“Q. It’s me.” John’s hand came up slowly and he gently, but firmly gripped the gun. Quentin released it without a fight and John uncocked it and slid it down the table towards Mycroft before looking back to the shaking man in front of him.

“James?” Quentin whispered, and John cupped the back of his neck and hushed him, bringing him into a firm embrace as he shook.

Mycroft politely cleared his throat from the other end of the room.

“Perhaps, when my brother is able to regain control of himself, someone might like to inform the rest of us as to what is going on here?”

“Shut up, Mycroft.” John said, not turning away from Quentin. This was important, and he wasn’t about to let Mycroft ruin it. After a minute or so, Quentin pulled away and wiped his eyes.

“My apologies 007. That was… inappropriate,” he said formally, turning away. John raised his eyebrows and grabbed his arm, turning him back.

“No. It wasn’t. It was an entirely appropriate reaction to the situation.”

“For fucks sake, would the two of you please sit down and tell us what the hell is going on here?” Greg exploded. John sighed.

“Alright, now might be the time to mention that I worked for MI6 for a while.”

“Obviously. I don’t know how I missed it before,” Sherlock muttered petulantly.

“There is no MI6,” Greg said incredulously, turning to Mycroft. “Is there?”

Quentin was still staring at John. “We mourned you. I mourned you, James. A whole week without tea in your honor.” The rest of the Holmeses looked appalled at this.

“Q, darling, you’re miserable if you miss one cup in the morning. You haven’t gone without tea since you were in secondary school!” Mrs. Holmes exclaimed.

“I pity those who had to put up with you,” Mycroft intoned.

John ignored them.

“Thank you for mourning me, Q. It’s good to know that you cared so much. I honestly should have known that you were a Holmes, the signs are all there.” Quentin glared at John.

“How could you do that to us?”

Sherlock burst out laughing. “You’re a hypocrite, John Watson.”

John turned to him and raised his eyebrows. “How so?”

“Well, I faked my death once and you punched me. Q mentioned that you are the former agent 007, James Bond, and he obviously believes you’re supposed to be dead, which leads me to the conclusion that you have faked your death not once, but twice! A hypocrite, John.”

John paused and thought about this. “I knew that your death was faked: I didn’t punch you because you faked your death. The first time I punched you it was because you interrupted my dinner with Mary— that’s what Eve is going by now, Q. She’s not dead either,” He ignored the indignant and shocked noises from the man, moving on quickly,”— and the second time it was for being a bloody wanker. Besides, the circumstances were very different.”

“You knew I was dead?”

“It’s all a trick, just a magic trick. You tried to tell me and I heard what you weren't saying. It was obvious enough to me, having worked for MI6 for as long as I did.” 

“If I might interject,” Q had taken his seat, looking far less shaky than he had been, “I seem to remember you falling off a train to your death and then laying low. The circumstances regarding my brother’s fall and yours are… shockingly reflective of one another.”

“He’s got you there, mate,” Greg put in.

“Yes but it’s not like I had any friends there. There were other agents who were more than capable of picking up the slack when I left.”

“No real friends? What were Eve and I? Chopped liver? And besides, nobody could replace you, James, you’re the best in the business.”

John sighed. “Alright, fine. I’m sorry,” he said to Q. “So extremely sorry for leaving you.” He turned to the rest of the table. “The rest of you— barring you two,” he said, aside, to Sherlock’s parents, “Can bloody well bugger off. I haven’t done anything to you lot.”

“Excepting your extreme hypocrisy,” Sherlock said. John growled.

“Perhaps I should bring up that I worked for MI-bloody-6 and you don’t want to make me angry,” he said in a low voice.

Greg burst out laughing. “Sorry, John. It’s just, you look like an affronted hedgehog. Nobody can take you seriously when you’re wearing that jumper.” John raised his eyebrows as Greg laughed harder, some of the others starting to laugh with him. John found himself unexpectedly reassured. Sure, he was a famous killer who worked for the government, but nobody here was blinking an eye at that. It didn’t change much, except to Mycroft, who was secretly enraged over the fact that his agents had missed such a big detail when doing his background check.

John eventually gave in and joined the laughing group at the table. “A hedgehog? Seriously?” The others just laughed harder. Something in his chest released and he grinned.

“John, now that I know you’re capable and that it is… a habit of yours, I must warn you. If you attempt to fake your death I will stop at nothing to find you and drag you back. So save Mycroft and I the trouble, and don’t,” Sherlock said quietly to him.

John thought about this and grinned.

“Now who’s the hypocrite?”

“John.”

“No promises.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! Please leave comments and kudos letting me know what you think.  
> Also, this is unbeta'd, so let me know if you see something weird and I'll fix it.
> 
> If you recognize something that you see, I don't own it or claim to own it. I'm just having fun here, not trying to get sued.


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